A Eulogy: Vivek Pandher

Eulogy, a fine word, an equal mix of vowels and consonants that somehow used to fascinate me when I learned it. Or even obituary for that matter. How the tongue adjusts itself precisely for its enunciation. But, my brothers demise was the last thing I had envisaged that would give me an opportunity to write one.

The first time when I talked to the doctor from Washington about his condition, 'He may not survive. He may die', he said.  I swallowed, unaware as to how to respond, my dad stepped in and brought me to the present sensing my horrid silence with gaping eyes while my organs seemed to sink and swirl into a deep black hole of the body,  'Its okay, there's nothing we can do about it. Say thank you.' I did the same and cut the call.

Vivek was a lot of things to a lot of people. To me, as an elder bother, I have memories of him scaring me off after we'd finish watching horror shows as kids, to introducing me to varied genres in music, to making me look forward to new and interesting lessons in school, to being an absolute rock in the past year and helping me figure things out and even going out of his way to do them for me like finding the right universities and filling the college apps for instance. He weaved together my present and past with his insightful knowledge and paved the way for the future. Life with him has come a full circle.

(Vivek, you're gone and so is my taken for grantedness for life, people and experiences. You've recently introduced me to what it is to have and experience a network of family support system coupled with the warmest hugs and acquainted an array of your people, the ones you knew so well and the others who knew you, and mostly the love whose forms were so tangible. I'm grateful to you, them and the consequent conglomerate.)

From his friends and associates I'd hear stories of his charismatic self and demeanor. He took it upon himself to lead the life he intended and contribute in every degree to enhance the lives of those around him. A sense of casual fashion was one of his recent acquisitions I noticed with incorporation of some elements of Punjabi heritage.

What we as siblings had distinguished for ourselves is how everything exists in language. And that representation of feelings happens as a consequence of language and not the other way round. So let us, through the gift of language we humans share, create an empowering context of living for ourselves and our people at this time.

When I tied a heart shaped bracelet on his wrist that the BC organ donation team gave me, I realised, and shared later with mom, that if we have to continue living, we have to live as beautifully as he did. Be courageous to make the choices we have always wanted to, be expressive of the love we have for people, loved ones or absolute strangers, nature and life in general. And above all, live it with zeal, because that's how its supposed to be lived.

Robin Williams from the Dead Poets Society would be smiling from his grave, for I know, that this boy had always seized the day and made his life extraordinary. He was a photographer, an aspiring filmmaker, a musician, an engineer with an inclination towards recognition of Punjabi poetry along with a penchant for writing postcards and above all, an amazing human being with an infectious smile and a solid strength of the mind and words. And most importantly, he lived life his way, fully and without regrets and entirely in a little short than twenty three years.

He wrote below one of Instagram pictures, and I quote, 'I can bet I'm in one percent of the most happiest people in the world with the best quality of life. Have coolest friends, mentors and people around. And am grateful to everyone for all the love.' Well, his flair for grammar isn't comparable to the flair with which he lived his life.But I'm sure that's excusable, right?

In the end, to those cuffed with questions on the futility of life, "Whitman answers, 'That you're here, that life  exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.' That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute  verse. What will your verse be?"

Unrequited love

You asked me, 'you're fine, na?'
Not once
But twice, to hear the same reply
'Ya ya'.
Did you decipher the hollowness
Behind the make belief emotions
Of happiness I tried to project on the day
I was born nineteen years ago?
Not the people I call ‘best friends’ found
The slightest trace of it
Or their acute awareness of my
Indifference to celebratory days
Didn’t make much of a difference.

I’d rather be in the ignorance of it
Than get to know the soulfulness
Of the question and equate it
To the level I was feeling that night.

Nevertheless I see your silhouettes
In different people I come across
Or the characters from your favourite sitcoms
And the content of the books you read
Which help me getting a glimpse onto what runs
Under those folds of your gyri and sulci
And buildings I see which remind
Me of the endeavours you behold
And sometimes, the people in them
To whom I sheepishly smile
And initiate happy conversations
As if I’m talking to
A part of you the universe
Conspired for me.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe
You silently accuse me
Of unrequited love and I don't
Blame you for that.
For, my paradigm of love doesn't
Require constant validation and knowhow
Of each other's affairs
Of mind and body
But the comfort of assurance
Of their keen interests in them.

Conundrum

No wonder

I can't write

Happy stories,

I exhaust my

Happiness in its

Physical expression

That words no more

Make sense

When I sit down

To write.

Blanket

So I was sitting and plucking your lint

And realised, you’re the one who has seen the real me

Even then wrapped me up in your embrace night after night;

You’ve experienced my hand go under my pants

And have been a mute spectator to come

And softened the rotten smell of my blood

Every month with your layered thickness;

You’ve been seldom sprinkled with tears and

Accusatory notes by the night

And milk by the morning, (owing to the unaccountable handling

Of my cereal bowl) also, gratitude spells.

You’ve saved me from the outside world (read: people)

As I bundled up in your arms, clothed or naked

Without moral policing.

Although I’ve unabashedly expressed my disdain

For your crimson velvet fabric and electric print

Which also acted as an insulator for the overheated laptop,

But sought your aid for hibernation.

You’ve seen me envision and dreamt

Along with me with polarising feelings;

And above all, I see you lying listlessly

For I don’t bother to fold you every day

For I know I’ll need you too soon

To pack away would be a waste of time.

Dissent

I thought I’d never date a lawyer

For our conversations would

Turn to battlegrounds, swinging swords

Of words to incite each other

For the sole motive of victory

Until I realised that dissent isn’t

Anti person and conflicting ideas and paradigms

Help me experience two parallel worlds

Simultaneously coupled with the pleasure

Of engulfing mind fucks

A lot of literature with a little of this and that: JLF ‘15

My anticipation of three years for the prestigious Jaipur Literature Festival owing to the rigorous and uncompromising academia I was part of, culminated this year with a plan, over a dinner with family friends, one of the most memorable, if I may add.

So, the journey with the self proclaimed literati, mostly of my age group comprised of conversations from homosexuality, God, culture and casteism among others headed by my critic uncle, formed a fraction, majority of which was devoted to music: listening, singing and a combination of both.

The opportunity to listen to an array of authors, journalists, politicians and celebrities and see them casually move about was a humbling experience I cannot fathom to chronicle, but here’s an attempt.

Out of the six back to back sessions at different venues of the Diggi palace, my first day and the festival’s second began with ‘A revolution is brewing- women uninterrupted’ owing to my feministic instincts followed by travel writing where authors read out some hilarious incidents they experienced while in India and others which excruciated their very ‘Indian-ness’; and culminated with the story of Princess, suffragette, and revolutionary:  Sophia Duleep Singh and the challenges Anita Anand faced in deciphering her life and thus being of aid in communicating it.

Getting the hold of things better, subsequent days made more sense to me in ways more than one. ‘Reaching for the Stars’, explored space writing’s incorporation into relatable and gripping stories. Likewise the ‘Selfie’ discussed the art of memoir and diary writing. It was a refreshing conglomerate of the title and the area of discussion. I was in a literature festival after all. Nevertheless, it was equally agonising when Shobha De herself iterated the use of dance in ‘Dance Like a Man: Refiguring Masculinity’ as a metaphor but nowhere in the session did she herself for that matter proceed to discuss it as she proclaimed, with the other three panellists.

Then there were Rajdeep Sardesai’s rather forthright remarks on the ‘Deconstructing Change: The Election That Changed India’ (in context of the Modi wave and the general elections of 2014) and how the one thing that unites India today is aspiration, the nasty role media played under the big power heads blocking out Mr. Kejriwal. I’m sure he has much to say after the recent Delhi polls.

Amidst his forgetfulness, V.S. Naipaul’s session was rather an encouraging call to young writers through his insights like, “I thought if I don’t have faith in myself and my talent that would be the end of me as a person” or just blatant remarks like, "if a writer has to make a living, he has to write a book” in the session aptly titled ‘The writer and The World’ following which I attended, ‘Cities and their Shadows’ introduced by the Red Herring columnist, Indrajit Hazra where discussion gained momentum to define a city as more than just a place made of brick and mortar. But, “a city is people, a city is its stories”, concluded Navtej Sarna whose work focused on Jerusalem. Among the panellists were Yatindra Mishra talking on Ayodhya, Malvika Singh on Delhi and Esther David on Ahmedabad, and all collectively on cities- the great levellers.

Simon Singh talked about mixing of math and science with popular culture (by not necessarily undermining the math or science) through the sitcom The Simpsons. The entertaining and enlightening session, as promised by Anuradha Sengupta in a response to the furore of thronging fans to hear Abdul Kalam in the nearby front lawns, well delivered, marked the end of an engaging day.

From Chetan Bhagat’s commercial cacophony to the irony of writing a biography of Socrates in a session so passionately led by Bettany Hughes and the journey of Narayan Murthy from a confused leftist to a determined capitalist, ending with Ram Jethmalani’s life, years of lawyership, politics, and of course women. The last day covered it all.

Mesmerising sessions, surprisingly heart-warming PDA not narrowed to an age group, and the freedom of company of cordial people and enchanting books coupled with the diversity of individuals, clothing and food marked my days at the fest which was rendered by avant-garde decor, is an experience I very much cherish and reminisce.